


A point man plans a wedding

by kate_the_reader



Series: Going Home [7]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bantering, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Making Plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6094108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the proposal, Eames wants their wedding to be perfect. Good thing Arthur is one of the best planners in dreamshare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A point man plans a wedding

**Author's Note:**

> As always, chasingriver was supportive and helpful, thank you!

“Darling,” says Eames a couple of days after their marriage proposal, “I think we need a better plan for actually getting married, don’t you?” 

“A plan in which we both know what we are doing?” says Arthur, looking up from the news site he’s combing. 

“Yes, a plan I can’t fuck up,” says Eames, “A plan in which you tell me what to do and I do it.” 

Arthur stops what he’s doing and comes over to where Eames is sitting on the couch reading. 

“Look at me, Eames,” he says. 

Eames looks up. Arthur is very serious, his frown between his eyebrows. 

“Eames, just what do you think you fucked up? I recall being asked if I would marry you. I recall saying yes. What I also recall is that I sent you into a panic by letting my phone go dead. So I want to know what plan you fucked up? I fucked up, Eames, it was me,” Arthur says, sitting down next to Eames and reaching for his hand. 

“Oh darling,” say Eames. “No, you’d gone to get these,” he says, reaching for Arthur’s right hand and pulling it into his lap where Arthur is already holding Eames’s right hand. “You’d gone to get these,” he says softly, rubbing his thumb over Arthur’s ring, which matches his own. 

“Okay,” says Arthur. “Let’s agree that neither of us fucked that up. Do you want me to plan our wedding?” 

“Yes please, darling,” says Eames. 

“You wouldn’t rather hire wedding planner?” asks Arthur. “A professional? Someone with all the right contacts? I hear gay wedding planning is a growth industry.” His dimples are out, but Eames isn’t sure if he's just teasing. 

“Darling, are you, the man who can plan an extraction in a rainstorm in Kuala Lumpur, and have it go flawlessly, even when,” he says, holding up his hand as Arthur threatens to interrupt, “Even when that _arse_ Grunwald is the extractor, are you threatening to hire some bloody _wedding planner_ to organize our wedding?” 

Arthur laughs. “How many projections are you planning to invite to this wedding, Mr Eames? Wedding planners plan weddings. I plan extractions. Sometimes inceptions. I’m not that sure my research skills will be that relevant when it comes to finding the best florist in LA, or a chef who can make fruitcake.” 

“Oh love,” says Eames, “What are you on about? If you can’t track down a baker who can make fruitcake, even in this wasteland, then there’s truly no hope, and I no longer wish to drag out my days here.” 

Arthur climbs into Eames’s lap and kisses him stupid. “You are so full of it, Mr Eames,” he says fondly. “I will plan us the best fucking wedding anyone has ever had.” 

“Well, maybe we should leave the fucking till after,” says Eames. 

Arthur punches him in the arm. “Hmmm, maybe we should,” he says, getting up. He winks over his shoulder as he goes back over to the dining table, through the archway, and picks up his tablet. “Right. Fruitcake,” he says. “Fruitcake.” 

 

 

********* 

 

In bed that evening, Eames says, “Love, who do you want at this wedding? Our families, of course …” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, “Mom, Grammy, your parents …” 

“Your sisters,” says Eames, “Ginger, Jim-Bob, Billy, if he’s still around.” 

“Really?” says Arthur, “The whole crowd?” Eames raises an eyebrow. “Oh, okay,” says Arthur. “Yes, I get it. Ha, that’ll be something for Jim-Bob to tell his friends on the rig, I guess!” 

“Precisely,” says Eames, pulling Arthur across to kiss him, “Precisely. We can invite my Great Aunt Susan if you think the numbers’ll be too uneven,” he says. 

“Your Great Aunt Susan?” says Arthur. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned her?” 

“She’s awfully stuffy,” says Eames. “And old. Loves a wedding, though.” 

Arthur giggles. “Who else?” he says. “Cobb?” 

“Yes, of course,” says Eames. “Cobb, of course. Ariadne. Yusuf if he’ll come all this way. Miles?” 

“But small, Eames, we’ll keep it small?” says Arthur. 

“God, yes,” says Eames, “Some of the people we know, I wouldn’t have anywhere near our parents or our nuptials if you paid me a lot of money.” 

Arthur laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Very good point.” 

 

 

********* 

 

A few days later, Arthur says, as they walk back from lunch at a cafe by the reservoir, “Where do you want to do it?” 

“Kitchen table?” says Eames. 

Arthur elbows him in the side. “That’s not what I mean.” 

“It’s not?” says Eames, hoping to make him blush. “Can’t imagine what you do mean, then.” 

Arthur raises an eyebrow and keeps walking. 

“I’m sorry, love,” says Eames. “In the backyard.” 

“That’s better,” says Arthur. “More room.” 

Their yard slopes steeply and the bottom level is a terrace under a drooping pepper tree. A path winds down via several levels from the house. It’s very secluded. It’ll be perfect. 

“Do we have to have an official to pronounce us?” asks Eames. 

“Not an official official,” says Arthur. “Anyone can get licensed. It’s not that hard.” 

“Cobb?” says Eames. 

“Well,” says Arthur. “You know he’s better if he has a defined role.” 

He startles a laugh out of Eames. “That’s true, love,” he says. 

“I guess the little kids would like to be involved too,” says Arthur. “Ashlee. And Philippa and James.” 

“Strewing flower petals before our feet?” says Eames. 

“Oh god, we’ll think of something,” says Arthur. “Maybe not flower petals.” 

“Bullet casings?” says Eames, “Very pretty and shiny.” 

Arthur just shakes his head and walks faster. 

 

 

********* 

 

Eames comes in from the gym a few days later and finds Arthur at the table surrounded by fabric samples. 

“What’s this, love?” he asks. “My wedding suit?” 

“It’s damask, Eames,” says Arthur. 

“Don’t you think I’d look lovely in it, though?” says Eames. 

He has taken to teasing Arthur to smooth away the frown he can get when he’s too deep in detail. 

“You’d look devastating in it, yes,” says Arthur. “You manage to look devastating in those thrift shop finds of yours.” 

“My vintage clothes, you mean?” says Eames. 

“No, these are tablecloths,” says Arthur with a sigh. “I love shopping,” he says, “But this is a bit much.” 

“What does it matter?” says Eames. “We can eat off paper plates, off paper tablecloths, I don’t care. It’s not worth the stress,” he says, tugging Arthur up from his chair and kissing him. “It’s a party, love. We’re supposed to enjoy it.” 

“I promised you the best fucking wedding ever,” says Arthur into his collarbone. 

“And it will be, darling. Tablecloths won’t make it better or worse.” 

Arthur nods. “I guess,” he says. “Yes, you’re right. Of course you’re right.” 

“Come to bed with me now,” says Eames. 

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” says Arthur, but he’s laughing. 

 

 

********* 

 

It occurs to Eames, that when Arthur said to his parents at Christmas, “You should come to LA,” he might not have meant, “To our wedding.” 

Arthur might not want his folks and Eames’s parents to meet for the first time at their wedding. 

As they stack the dishwasher one evening, he says, “Love, do you think we should have the families for a visit before the wedding? My parents and Tabitha and Skippy?” 

“Seems hard on your parents to fly all this way twice,” says Arthur. 

“They’ve got friends in New York or somewhere. Maybe they could come out here, go back East and then come back for the wedding. Would Tabitha and Skippy come out here twice?” 

He knows it’s harder for Skippy and Tabitha to get time off from their jobs, as a lawyer’s secretary and a doctor’s receptionist. The wedding will be when his mother’s school is closed. 

“Yes, I think we could persuade them. You could,” says Arthur. 

“We’ll treat them all,” says Eames. 

If there’s one thing he and Arthur have plenty of, it’s money. Neither family would ever take money, but he can charm them into taking business class tickets. 

“Oh god,” says Arthur, “This better not be a terrible idea.” 

“What could go wrong?” says Eames. “They’ll all get on, don’t you think?” 

“I guess,” says Arthur, but he doesn’t sound that certain. “They’re pretty different.” 

“Not really,” says Eames, “Okay, my parents live in a bigger place, but they’ll be strangers in America. They’ll love your folks. Won’t your folks love my mum and dad?” 

“Well, I do,” says Arthur, as if that seals it. Eames thinks it probably does. 

There’s no telling what will happen when Jim-Bob gets here, of course. 

 

 

********* 

 

At dinner one evening, Arthur says, “It’s hopeless, by the way.” 

“What is, love?” says Eames. “Are you throwing me over?” 

“No. Fruitcake. It’s hopeless. No one in this city can bake a fruitcake. It’s a wasteland and you will not want to drag out your days here.” 

Eames laughs. “I thought you meant some truly insurmountable problem. My mum can bake it and bring it with her. You know it’s basically immortal, don’t you? People keep part of their wedding cakes for their first child’s christening. Or an anniversary.” 

“First child, eh?” says Arthur, raising an eyebrow. 

“Well,” says Eames, “You know, not something we have to concern ourselves with.” 

“And will you decorate it for us, like you did the Christmas cake?” says Arthur. 

“Mmmm, I could do that. That would be fun, actually,” says Eames. “Stop me feeling too useless.” 

“Oh Eames,” says Arthur, “Am I shutting you out? I’m not trying to, honestly.” 

Eames knows Arthur isn’t trying to shut him out, only doing what they agreed, but it does sometimes feel as if he doesn’t have much to do yet. 

He thinks of the figures he can put on their cake, to make Arthur smile the way the scarf-wearing snowpeople had at Christmas. It might not be strictly tasteful, but he thinks he may get away with it. 

 

 

********* 

 

“I wonder,” Eames says one day as they sit on the deck with coffee before an early meeting, “if Cobb is going to officiate, who’s going to be your groomsman?” 

“Have you asked Yusuf yet?” asks Arthur. 

“Yeah, he said he’d ‘be delighted’. Good of him,” says Eames. 

“What did you expect, though?” says Arthur, “That he’d say he was too busy? Besides, you forget how much he likes champagne,” he says. 

Eames snorts a laugh. “Yes, of course, how could I forget that,” he says. “But back to the point. Who’s going to stand up with you?” he says. 

“Well, don’t laugh, but I thought I’d ask Ariadne,” says Arthur. 

“Excellent choice, darling,” says Eames. “I’m a little scared of that girl, of course,” he says. 

“And Cobb?” says Arthur, “Will you make him get an online certificate so he can do the honors?” 

“Yes, I looked into it,” says Eames. “It’s ridiculously easy. California really wants us to get married in our backyard, now. After everything.” 

“About time,” says Arthur, getting up and taking Eames’s empty mug. 

 

 

********* 

 

Eames is fetching the mail one morning when he bumps into a glamorous woman on his doorstep. 

“Hello,” she says. “George Eames?” 

“Yes,” says Eames, “Just Eames. What can I do for you?” 

“I’ve brought the samples,” says the woman, who is rather terrifyingly well groomed. Eames feels entirely under-dressed in his sweatpants and old T-shirt. 

“Sure. Samples?” says Eames. “Come in. Arthur?” he calls, “Arthur? Did you forget to tell me something?” 

Arthur emerges from their office. “Um, oh dear, I forgot our appointment,” he says to the woman, “I’m terribly sorry. Please come in, Joanne.” 

The woman steps into their living room and Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur. 

“Joanne Eagle is a designer. She has samples to show us for our suits,” says Arthur. 

“Oh,” says Eames, “Ah. May I speak to you Arthur, quickly, please love?” 

He motions him into the office. 

“Our suits, darling? Of course, I’m going to wear one, but a designer? Making housecalls?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, flashing all his dimples. “A housecall! She’s fantastic. A tailor. I saw her in _GQ_. You are going to look amazing,” he says, running a hand down Eames’s chest. “You are going to look so fucking gorgeous, Mr Eames.” 

“Not as gorgeous as you, darling,” says Eames, kissing him quickly. “It’s not possible.” 

Stepping back into the living room, Eames offers his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I was caught off guard. Would you like tea?” 

Joanne Eagle has laid out sketches and fabric samples on the coffee table. 

“Oh, this one is wonderful,” says Arthur. “Cashmere?” he asks. 

“No,” says Joanne. “It’s a very fine wool. More suited to a summer affair.” 

“Yes, of course,” says Arthur. 

Listening from the kitchen, Eames smiles to himself as he waits for the kettle to boil and lays out teacups. 

He carries the tray into the living room. Arthur looks up, his eyes sparkling. “Look at this, Eames,” he says. 

He holds out a swatch of extremely dark navy fabric. 

“Yes,” says Joanne. “You were right, Arthur. It _will_ bring out his eyes.” 

Eames blushes. It’s a little uncomfortable to be the subject of this conversation. It’s not as if he doesn’t care what he wears, and he often asks Arthur’s opinion, but this is different. He has to admit, though, that the fabric is beautiful. 

“You, on the other hand,” says Joanne to Arthur, “You should wear black.” 

“Shouldn’t we match?” says Eames. 

“No, no, no!” says Joanne, with a look of horror. “No matchy-matchy grooms, please! Complimentary, but individual!” 

They’re planning to get married as the sun sets, but Joanne says tuxes will be over the top for the garden setting. “And a cliche,” she says. 

Eames thinks that’s a pity, because Arthur is devastating in a tuxedo. 

“Besides,” says Joanne, “There’s more scope with your ties if they’re not tuxes.” 

“Mmmm,” says Arthur. “Yes. I have something in mind.” He looks over at Eames. “Mmmm,” he says. But he won’t say more and Eames has learned by now to allow Arthur his moments of mystery. 

Later, Arthur says, “I hope I didn’t ambush you. I wasn’t trying to. I did forget the appointment. I thought is was more efficient for her to come here.” 

“It’s fine,” says Eames. “It was fun.” 

Joanne had shown them a variety of ideas, and he’s happy with what they’ve agreed on. 

“You’re going to be devastating, love,” he says. 

“So are you,” says Arthur. “I can’t wait.” 

“Not that much longer now, is it,” says Eames, pulling Arthur down into his lap. “Not much longer.” 

“Yeah,” says Arthur, kissing him. “I can’t wait.” 

 

 

********* 

 

It’s not much longer, but there’s a lot to do, and life doesn’t stop for wedding planning. Arthur has other research he’s being paid for, although they’re not taking jobs that require any travel. Eames consults on a local job, a movie producer who wants to know if the pitch he’s contemplating has been taken to a rival studio. Dreamshare’s not always glamorous, but this job does at least mean he has to dine at Wolfgang Puck’s place. A bonus that almost makes up for the raging ego of the producer. 

“God, tell me again whey we live in this town,” he says when he gets home. 

“Because I love Silver Lake,” says Arthur. “Don’t you love Silver Lake? Besides, you love showing off your gorgeousness at places like that. I wish I’d been there. How many people stopped at the table to ask for your headshots?” 

Eames laughs. There had been one very insistent casting director. 

 

 

********* 

 

Arthur had booked a caterer weeks before, it’s not something you can leave to chance in LA in the wedding season. Especially not when there are suddenly a whole lot more people wanting to get married than before. 

At the time, Arthur had asked what Eames wanted to eat for a wedding supper. 

“I suppose huge burgers are out,” Eames had said, and Arthur had just rolled his eyes. “We’re going to be wearing bespoke tailoring, Eames.” 

“Your point being, love?” Eames had said. 

Arthur had just laughed. Eames adores that Arthur likes being teased like this. He hadn’t always. 

Together, he and Arthur have sampled menus that the caterer — a rather intense young man with more tattoos than Eames, and a reputation for inventively prepared meats and frankly unusual vegetables — sent over. 

“Are you sure this food won’t frighten our parents?” asks Eames. 

“I think it’s all delicious and as long as they don’t read the full descriptions, they’ll be fine,” says Arthur, laughing. 

Eames has to agree. It’s a dinner for a few people, it can be far above the poached salmon and rubber chicken common on the wedding circuit. 

Arthur is in the kitchen one afternoon when Eames comes in with several bags of groceries. 

“Oh good,” says Arthur, “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

The breakfast bar is covered with plastic boxes. 

“What’s that, love?” says Eames, a little distracted trying to fit everything into the fridge. 

“William sent over the desserts for us to try.” 

“Desserts, eh? Good thing one of us has a sweet tooth.” 

“And you, Mr Eames, have never eaten ice cream or a cupcake? What was that at lunch the other day then?” says Arthur, giggling at him. 

“That was only so you didn’t have to eat it all yourself and then complain about how you’re not going to fit into your suit, darling,” says Eames. “Right, let’s have a look then,” he says, lifting the lid on the first box. 

“William sent instructions about how to eat them,” says Arthur. “This one has a sauce … hang on, here it is,” he says, opening a small tub and spooning a purple sauce over the creamy confection. 

He digs a spoon in and offers it to Eames. The sauce is tart and sweet at the same time, the dessert cool and rich, faintly herbal in flavor. 

“Oh, love, that’s delicious,” says Eames. 

“Thyme pannacotta with ginger-Boysenberry fool,” Arthur reads from the menu William the scary caterer has sent over. “Mmmm, oh yes, that’s marvelous,” he says when Eames passes him a spoonful. 

The next box is flat. Inside are six morsels. “The menu just says: ‘Pineapple’,” says Arthur. Each morsel is intensely pineapple: a glazed piece of the fruit crusted with chilli, a tiny ball of sorbet, a piece of shortbread covered with pineapple dust. Arthur laughs outright. 

“Eames,” he says, “This is so clever!” 

“Mmmm,” says Eames, “But why are we standing in the kitchen? Bring the rest with you,” he says, picking up a couple of the boxes, a handful of spoons and a roll of paper towels and heading for the bedroom. 

By the end of the afternoon they need a shower and clean sheets, and Arthur emails William: “All of them, please.” 

 

 

********* 

 

Eames comes in from the yard one morning with a sprig of Philadephus for Arthur. 

“Darling,” he says, “For you. A buttonhole.” 

He’s not sure why he’s feeling so silly and romantic. Arthur won’t wear such a flamboyant flower to a meeting. But he tucks it in his shirt pocket and sniffs appreciatively. 

“We do need buttonholes don’t we, Eames?” he says. 

“I’ve been thinking about flowers,” says Eames. 

“Oh yes?” says Arthur. 

“Wedding flowers,” says Eames. “I don’t want big showy bouquets arranged by a stranger. I want our garden.” 

He loves the garden. Loves adding new plants that do well in their dry space, full of sloping, winding paths. They have planted many things that waft scent over the deck where they like to sit in the evenings, and Eames imagines sitting with Arthur and their families there, surrounded by the fragrance of their own space and bunches of their own flowers. He can’t imagine a more perfect setting for Arthur on their wedding day. 

“Oh Eames,” says Arthur, leaning over to kiss him. “I wonder if anyone who’s seen you at work would ever guess. I’m glad they wouldn’t. It’s my secret. I’m marrying the most romantic man in Los Angeles.” 

Eames wraps his arms round Arthur’s waist and breathes the sweet scent in. 

The next day, he goes to a wild plant nursery and buys every fragrant plant they have, to create the perfect wedding bouquet to surround Arthur. 

 

 

********* 

 

Eames is in the shower when Arthur comes into the bathroom. He has just returned from a run, sweaty and flushed, his hair tumbling into his eyes. He steps in with Eames. 

“What’s this, darling?” says Eames. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Arthur. “Couldn’t resist.” He runs his hands over Eames’s chest, down his arms, up his back, down over his arse. He ducks his head and runs his tongue over the tattoo on Eames’s chest, trailing his fingers along the words around Eames’s bicep. 

“God, I love your ink,” he says, looking up with hooded eyes. 

“I know, love,” says Eames, his breath catching. “I know.” 

Later, their morning schedule shot to hell, Arthur lies tracing his fingers along Eames’s collarbone, smiling as he reads the words there. “I really love your ink. I want more,” he says. “Would you have another, for me?” 

“Of course, love, anything, you know that,” says Eames. “Any ideas?” 

Arthur leans back and reaches into the drawer in his nightstand. “Yes,” he says. 

He rolls back to Eames with a piece of paper in his hand. He reaches for Eames’s right hand, circling his fingers around Eames’s wrist. 

“This,” he says. 

On the paper is an infinity symbol. Arthur turns Eames’s wrist up and traces his finger over the tender inner skin. “Here,” he says. He drops his cufflinks into Eames’s hand. “Then we’ll both have it there,” he says. 

Eames swallows. “Oh darling,” he says, “Oh love. Yes.” He rubs a knuckle in his eye. “Yes,” he says. 

Arthur has never been to a tattoo artist but he comes with Eames when he goes to the studio on Sunset he likes. 

“Big Mike” gives him a questioning look. “Hey, Eames, what’s it to be today?” 

Eames shows him the curving ribbon loop. 

“Just one?” says Mike. 

Arthur blushes and shoots his cuffs. Mike has sharp eyes, “Ah, I see you have it already,” he says. 

Eames has done this often, he doesn’t need his hand held, but he takes Arthur’s hand as he sits in the chair. “Stay here, love,” he says. 

Arthur winces as the needle’s whining buzz starts up. He bites his lip and frowns as Mike starts to draw. He blinks and looks away, into Eames’s eyes, his fingers tightening. 

The next morning he watches Eames rub a bit of cream into the redness at his wrist and holds out his own wrist to Eames, dropping his cufflinks into his hand. 

 

 

********* 

 

Finally, everything is planned and listed in Arthur's neat writing in a special Moleskine that he keeps on his nightstand. Eames gives the notebook a fond look when they turn in, pulling Arthur in to lie with his head on Eames's shoulder so he can kiss Arthur's hair and nuzzle behind his ear as they talk over the day. No day can end without this, as far as Eames is concerned. 

Arthur wriggles up and leans in to kiss Eames. 

"I can't believe it's nearly here," he says. "Just weeks and then I can say, 'Yes, I do, always, to infinity'." 

"Oh, my love," says Eames, too overcome to say more, "Oh, darling, yes!" 

"Have you written your vows? Should we do them together?" says Arthur, a tiny frown between his brows. 

"Darling," says Eames, "I have. I know what I am going to say to you. I am dying to hear what you say to me." 

"Oh," says Arthur, blushing a bit, "I haven't written them. Yet. I'm not as good with words as you, Eames." 

Eames lifts his head to look at Arthur. 

"My love," he says, "that's not true. You've been so busy on the details, you haven't had time to yourself. But the details are finished. Take the all the time you want. I'll be your gatekeeper. No interruptions allowed. No emails from William, no calls from Cobb, no texts from Candy, if you don't want. Just take some time alone." 

"Oh Eames," says Arthur, "it has been a bit loud, lately." 

"Yes," says Eames, "You've done it all. Now you deserve all the time you want. Do you want to go away? A few days to unwind before our parents arrive?" 

Arthur frowns again. "Together? Or separately?" he says. 

"Well," says Eames, "I have something I need to do here. I thought you might like to go to a spa for a day or two ..." 

"Alone then?" says Arthur, "I would actually like that." 

"I thought so, maybe," says Eames. "I mean, aside from jobs apart, you've had no time to yourself in a long time." He doesn't say, "Since I moved in”, but that's what he's thinking. Eames doesn't like to be alone. He had a lot of time alone as an only child, and he prefers company. Especially Arthur's. Always Arthur's. But Arthur grew up in a loud family, and Eames knows he likes the quiet in his own head, sometimes. 

 

 

********* 

 

Arthur texts him a naked selfie from the spa. 

It arrives while Eames is in his painting studio, putting the final touches to the picture he has been working on. It is of their house, seen from the bottom of the yard. The foreground is framed by the drooping branches of the fragrant pepper tree they will be married under. At the top of the steps, near the deck, surrounded by flowering plants, are two figures seen from the back. One is broad, wearing a very dark navy suit. The other is slender, in black. 

Eames hopes he isn't tempting fate, creating this vision of something that has not yet happened, as a way to remember it. But he wants to give Arthur this thing, from his heart and his hands, from the creativity that Arthur re-awakened in him. 

Eames doesn't like being alone, with Arthur away, but he knows Arthur needs time to himself. Eames can take his time to himself in moments — hours in the studio, long walks while Arthur is running, visits to the gym. But Arthur, he knows, really needs a stretch of time away. 

Arthur had lived alone for many years, before that mad inception job on Fischer. Which led directly to a kiss next to the baggage carousel. Which led to Eames going home with Arthur and basically never leaving. He often thinks about the sacrifice that entailed, for Arthur to give up his privacy so completely, so quickly. Eames is sure Arthur doesn't regret it. But it must still be hard on him sometimes, Eames thinks. 

He looks at the selfie. It's not completely revealing, but it is clear Arthur is naked. He is flushed and a bit sweaty. Probably just come out of the sauna, Eames thinks. His hair is curling over his forehead, his eyes are languid, and his free hand is just to be seen disappearing at the bottom of the frame. Eames adores Arthur in this teasing, sexy mood. It's not a side of himself he shows to just anyone. In fact, if Eames were ever to mention it to anyone else, he's sure they would entirely disbelieve him. He's glad. It's a gift Arthur has chosen to give Eames. 

He forwards the picture to his computer and deletes it from his phone. 

He looks again at the canvas on his easel. The picture is finished. He cleans his brushes carefully, puts away the oil paints and locks the studio. He climbs the path to the deck and the empty house beyond. He has another day here alone before Arthur returns. He can wait. Even if he can't wait. 

He is ready for their wedding. 


End file.
